Darkstalkers: Big City Nights
by Sinder
Summary: A tale of the romance between a kung fu werewolf and a ninja stripper catwoman. What more could you possibly want? First chapter of a planned five. Comments and criticisms are encouraged.


**Darkstalkers: Big City Nights**

By S. R. H.

DISCLAIMER: _Darkstalkers_ and all related characters are the property of Capcom, and are used here without permission, for entertainment purposes only. This story was not written for profit, and it was not written to libel Capcom or the _Darkstalkers _franchise.

That being said, the _Darkstalkers _category really should be moved out of "Anime" and into "Games". Just a thought.

This story is intended for a mature audience. For matters of reference, the story is intended to take place after the events of the original _Darkstalkers_, but prior to the events of _Vampire Savior_.

* * *

_The night is calling_

_I have to go_

_The wolf is hungry_

_He runs the show_

_He's licking his lips_

_He's ready to win_

_On the hunt tonight_

_For love at first sting..._

_-- _The Scorpions_, Rock You Like A Hurricane_

* * *

**Round One: Beast**

_A night in late July, 1995_

_Las Vegas, Nevada, U.S.A._

The bartender had discovered that you could learn a lot about a man simply by looking at him.

It was not an easily acquired talent--it had taken him years of practice to develop, in fact--but he'd found it to be a useful skill, from time to time. You'd be surprised at the tremendous amount of information you could deduce about a person from the most minute, seemingly insignificant details. His occupation, his diet, the places he'd been, the places he planned to go, even the particulars of his private life--all were laid bare under the trained eye of a watchful observer.

The tourists, for example, were always easy to spot. They wore loud, brightly colored shirts with floral print, as if they were visiting some tropical island instead of the arid Nevada desert. They wore round, dark sunglasses--even indoors--perhaps believing that doing so made them look stylish; personally, the bartender thought that they wore the shades primarily to hide the discomfort they felt at being in such unfamiliar surroundings. They wore gaudy hats and cheap knockoff jewelry, and took pictures of themselves standing beside _everything_: pictures of the waitresses in their cat-ear hair bands and tight-fitting furry costumes, pictures of the feline-shaped slot machines, pictures of _him_ with a menu in one hand and a wine glass in the other... pictures of anything and everything in the Felicia's Paradise Hotel and Casino, burning through rolls of film as if the resort were the Eighth Wonder of the World. Yes, the tourists were always so very painfully obvious.

The VIPs, the bigwigs, the businessmen and congressmen and G-men, preferred a more subtle approach. They were never so obvious as the tourists were--except for the celebrities, who basked in all the attention, and almost seemed to welcome the potential scandal that came with it--but their efforts at stealth could be both detected and superseded easily enough, if one knew what to look for. The bartender had privately coined the term "chameleons" for these men and women, in recognition of their talent for blending in with their surroundings. Chameleons generally employed two methods of camouflage: plain dress, and outright disguise. Neither tactic was very successful, especially when under the scrutiny of the bartender's keen gaze. He had made something of a game out of it, spending many a slow evening searching with his eyes for people in the hotel who were desperately trying to preserve their precious anonymity. However, this was not an exceedingly difficult task in itself; the plainly dressed people were always _too_ plain, and the disguised people always tried too hard.

For example, a man dressed in blue jeans, a t-shirt, and sneakers didn't belong in Felicia's Paradise. It wasn't that such people were unwelcome--Felicia herself had insisted upon a rigid "open doors" policy for all patrons of her establishment--but the simple truth was that a man garbed in such a fashion probably couldn't afford to stay in the hotel, let alone gamble away what little money he had. Room rates were high, and the odds in the casino were stacked even higher. Additionally, a genuine suburbanite paying a visit to a hotel as prestigious as Felicia's would be certain to make some attempt at formality: at the very least, he would wear a dress shirt, or perhaps a tie. The logical conclusion, therefore, was that if this hypothetical jean-clad man _did_ show up in the lobby, then he was likely more financially secure than he appeared to be, the proverbial wolf--or chameleon--in sheep's clothing.

The disguises were another matter. During his tenure in the city, the bartender had seen them all, from clowns to kings to mimes. A number of years ago, he had even seen two men trying to pass themselves off as a cow. These sights were not entirely unusual--this _was_ Las Vegas, after all--but in one way or another, the disguises themselves were all inevitably, invariably flawed. Even the more clever and less bizarre outfits had their share of errors and oversights. He'd seen men wearing glasses that had no lenses, men wearing fake beards and moustaches that were a different color than the hair on top of their heads, and maintenance men who carried no tools. He once saw a well-known actress--whose name, for the sake of privacy, shall not be mentioned here--who had somehow managed to slip into one of the fuzzy cat-woman getups worn by the hotel waitresses. She had strolled about the casino floor for over an hour, smiling and laughing and chatting with the guests... all without serving a single drink.

The bartender sighed and shook his head. He just didn't understand why people felt it necessary to conceal themselves behind those shallow facades. To feel the need to hide beneath such superficial masks was insecure; to believe yourself important enough to garner that much unwanted attention was arrogant; to believe that anyone would actually be fooled by your deception was ignorant.

You could learn all these things--and more--about a person simply by examining the clothing he wore. As Mark Twain had said, "The clothes make the man." The bartender himself preferred wearing a plain, dull, ordinary tuxedo--such a drab garment would've been considered blasphemous by the chameleons--and truth be told, he was rather proud of it, but not for reasons of vanity. The quiet, unassuming ensemble granted his job a sense of professionalism, and made him feel honest in a city filled with big liars who told even bigger lies. The fact of the matter was that if the chameleons would be willing to suffer the indignity of wearing a suit like his, then most of the people in this town probably wouldn't even notice them.

Of course, clothes weren't the only way to learn about someone; they were simply the most obvious, and the most easily observed. There were countless smaller clues you could search for--the color of a man's eyes, the food he ate, his speech and mannerisms--each one with its own tale to tell. For instance, a man's dominant hand is slightly larger than the hand that isn't. If a man's face constantly appears flushed, it could be an indication of alcoholism. The bartender had once heard that women with red hair were more likely to have affairs, although he could neither confirm nor deny this rumor. And so on and so forth, _et cetera_, _ad infinitum_. If there were enough clues available--and if you had enough free time on your hands--then you could learn almost everything there was to know about a person. That was another one of the bartender's little games: he fancied himself as an amateur detective, and liked to guess at the hobbies and habits of the people whom he served, basing his hypotheses solely upon the evidence that could be seen with the naked eye.

Perhaps that was why Mr. Smith fascinated him so.

Mr. Smith was a semi-regular at Felicia's. The bartender had served him several times in the past, but he came in only occasionally, usually for a day or two around the end of every month. No one knew why he visited the hotel so consistently, and yet so infrequently. That fact, among others, was what made Mr. Smith so intriguing to the bartender; he was a walking enigma, a complete mystery. The bartender had asked around, but no one seemed to know anything about Mr. Smith: not his occupation, or his home town, or even his real name. The bartender knew, naturally, that "Smith" was not a genuine surname; over the course of his career, he had met enough men named "John Smith" and "Jack Brown" and "Bill Jones" and other such laughably generic pseudonyms to fill a telephone book. Even the bartender's acute sense of deduction seemed unable to penetrate the shroud of secrecy that enveloped Mr. Smith, for he tread lightly, and left behind very few tracks to be followed. There were times when it seemed as if Mr. Smith's shadow held more substance than the man himself.

Little information could be garnered from Mr. Smith's appearance. He was a tall, clean-shaven man of just over six feet in height, and had spiky, shoulder-length silver-white hair. The bartender believed the hair was a ruse; Mr. Smith looked to be a man in his twenties, certainly no older than thirty--far too young to be so completely gray. He was dressed in a long-sleeved shirt of purple silk that reminded the bartender of something out of an old Bruce Lee movie, and wore pants to match. A yellow belt of the same material was tied around his waist, and there were wooden sandals upon his feet. His hands were hidden within black leather gloves that would squeak when he flexed his fingers. All of this was immaculately clean; there was not so much as a speck of dirt or a crumb of bread that might have betrayed Mr. Smith's prior whereabouts.

The lavish clothing, in combination with the dyed hair, led the bartender to conclude that Mr. Smith was just another chameleon, but he found this conclusion to be flawed in two important respects. Firstly, Mr. Smith always wore the same outfit every time he visited Felicia's; the bartender sometimes thought that the clothes might be the only ones he owned. As a rule, chameleons would never use the same disguise more than once, as a precaution against being discovered. Mr. Smith appeared almost casual by comparison, and apart from his obviously false alias, took no great pains to conceal his identity. This was either because he was not well known, or because he _was_, and did not fear the publicity that might follow him. A celebrity would enjoy being in the spotlight, but the bartender did not believe this label applied to Mr. Smith; he did not recognize Mr. Smith's face (and as a Vegas bartender, he prided himself upon his familiarity with the profiles of important people), and no one else seemed to, either. Out of all the times the bartender had served Mr. Smith, he had seen neither paparazzi nor eager, autograph-seeking fans pursuing him. Besides, Mr. Smith did not carry the air of smug superiority about himself that those flamboyant, self-absorbed men did. To be honest, he struck the bartender as being rather humble.

This fact alone was enough to convince the bartender that Mr. Smith was not a famous man.

That left the second major flaw: Mr. Smith hid his face behind nothing more than a pair of simple sunglasses. The bartender took them as further proof that Mr. Smith was not a chameleon. Chameleons usually found sunglasses inadequate for their needs, and tended to avoid them in favor of masks or makeup that provided better, fuller coverage of the face. Celebrities, surprisingly enough, wore sunglasses less often than you would think; to hide one's face, after all, was to defeat the whole purpose of being a celebrity. Normally, the bartender would've regarded the specs as being suggestive of the presence of a tourist, but while Mr. Smith was many things, a tourist he was _not_. He didn't dress like they did--his clothes, while unusual, weren't nearly as tacky as theirs were--and he certainly didn't talk like they did, either. It had been the bartender's experience that all tourists suffered from a crippling disease that rendered them completely unable to _shut up_. They rambled continuously about anything that sprang to mind, about their homes, and families, and pets, and the price of gasoline, and the _beautiful_ Nevada desert, and then their pets again, and even the tires on their cars. To get to know someone was one thing, but to hear their entire life story was something else. In contrast, Mr. Smith was a quiet man, almost to the point of being reserved; he seldom spoke, and when he did, the bartender made a point to listen closely. _The strong, silent type_... the bartender knew it was a cliché, but he thought it accurately described Mr. Smith.

For the aforementioned reasons, the bartender doubted that Mr. Smith was a tourist. That begged the question: if Mr. Smith was neither a tourist nor a chameleon, then precisely what _was_ he? The bartender would never ask such a question of Mr. Smith directly--to do so would be prying, not to mention rude--but he had been pondering the conundrum for some time, and after much thought, had been able to reach only one satisfactory conclusion.

To begin, Mr. Smith probably lived either in or near Las Vegas. A mere tourist could not possibly afford to travel to and from the city every month, and when compounded with the constant stays at Felicia's, it would prove to be an expensive habit for even a wealthy chameleon. With that in mind, the bartender could reasonably assume both that Mr. Smith did not have to traverse a lengthy distance, and that he was financially stable, as well. He might not be rich, like the chameleons were, but his ability to visit the hotel apparently on a whim suggested that he was not a poor man.

Therefore, what did Mr. Smith _do?_ Money was not a difficult thing to find in Vegas; the bartender made a comfortable living by doing nothing more than serving drinks. For all he knew, Mr. Smith could simply be a gambler who had gotten lucky. But while the gamblers were an admittedly odd lot, they were also almost universally addicted. Very few who had won any sizable amount of money would've been able to drag themselves away from the poker tables and roulette wheels for more than a week, to say nothing of a whole month. In fact, the bartender's friends and associates had told him that they hadn't seen Mr. Smith either entering or leaving any of the casinos in town... except, of course, for Felicia's. And even then, the bartender hadn't actually seen him treat himself to any games of chance. The gamblers also had a tendency to smoke, often heavily, probably as a way of coping with the burdens that Lady Luck, in her callous indifference, had forced them to bear. To the best of the bartender's knowledge, Mr. Smith had never touched a cigarette. No, Mr. Smith was an unlikely gambler, at best.

Having exhaustively considered the facts at hand and the various possibilities they presented, the bartender finally decided that Mr. Smith must be an entertainer. He had no concrete evidence with which to prove this theory, but it was not an implausible one. Mr. Smith's outlandish dress would have been quite fitting for a stage act of some sort--the bartender thought Mr. Smith's "robes" were reminiscent of the costumes worn by Siegfried and Roy over at the Mirage--and performers in Vegas often made very good money. Felicia herself was living proof; she was her own star attraction, with people coming in from around the country--and from _other_ countries--just to watch her dance. Mr. Smith probably had a similar talent... be it fire-eating, or sword-swallowing, or juggling, or whatever. The bartender reasoned that if Felicia could earn enough cash in this profession to purchase her own hotel, then surely Mr. Smith could afford to stay in one of its rooms. He certainly had the right body for the work; the bartender had caught fleeting glimpses of Mr. Smith's physique when his sleeves were rolled up or his collar was loose, and the man was built like a tank.

The irony was that ultimately, none of these details were truly important. It didn't matter _how _Mr. Smith chose to earn his wages; so long as Mr. Smith had money to spend, the bartender would continue to serve him. That was _his_ job, and he took it rather seriously.

The bartender was rinsing out a few shot glasses when he noticed Mr. Smith entering the ballroom. It had been a strangely sluggish evening so far; the bar itself was deserted, and there was a smaller crowd than usual, probably due to the hot summer night. This was generally the best season for Vegas, with vacationing tourists needing both a place to stay as well as a place to gamble their worries and cares away. However, there were nights--like this one--when the heated desert climate could prove to be a powerful deterrent to sightseeing and recreation. In a way, it was a blessing in disguise; the moon was supposed to be full tonight. The bartender had heard that the full moon didn't have any real effect upon people, but he knew from experience that this wasn't true. Given the choice, he would gladly choose a half-empty, listless room over one filled with noisy drunks and raving lunatics.

The bartender always took an interest in Mr. Smith's arrival, but on a tedious night like tonight, his presence was an especially welcome distraction. "Good evening, Mr. Smith," the bartender said. He could see his own reflection in the mirrored lenses of Mr. Smith's sunglasses; they were an expensive pair of wraparounds, nothing like those cheap imitations the tourists wore. He also noted that Mr. Smith's face looked less red than usual. The first time the bartender had seen him, Mr. Smith's face was an angry, almost swollen scarlet; at the time, the bartender had attributed his crimson countenance to a bad sunburn, a common affliction among visitors to the area. But over the course of Mr. Smith's subsequent visits, the "burn" had been slow to heal, leading the bartender to believe that the condition was more serious... perhaps a nasty rash. It occurred to the bartender that Mr. Smith might wear the specs for that very reason. Now, after many months had passed, the redness had largely faded, and Mr. Smith's complexion appeared much clearer than before. "Welcome back to Felicia's Paradise. You're looking well, if I may say so."

"Glad to hear it, Al," Mr. Smith said. He spoke in a deep, strong voice with a heavy British accent, and his sandals creaked with each step he took toward the counter. "It's good to be back. A pleasure to see you, as always." He glanced left, then right, and added, "Not many barflies about, I see. Boring night?"

"Never boring, sir... just too hot for my liking, and for theirs. Would you care for your usual bourbon?"

"Not this time. Give me vodka, and leave the bottle."

"Special occasion, sir?" The bartender smiled as he reached for the vintage Russian alcohol, but on the inside, he was scowling; he thought that at the very least, he'd figured out Mr. Smith's drinking habits. Learning what kinds of beverages your customers had a taste for was one of the cardinal rules of bartending.

"You could say that. Anniversary, actually," Mr. Smith said.

"Ahh, I see. Congratulations, sir." The bartender poured the booze into a crystalline glass, and set the bottle down upon the bar top. "On the house, sir. Compliments of Felicia's."

Mr. Smith gave a wry smile. "Aren't you worried that Felicia might not approve of you just giving away her sales like this?"

"Not at all, sir. Felicia encourages generosity. Consider it a token of our appreciation for your continued patronage."

Mr. Smith chuckled. "That sounds like Felicia, all right. I'll have to thank her personally." He grasped the glass in one gloved hand and lifted it to the bartender in a toast. "Cheers, Al."

Mr. Smith drank from the glass, sipping at first... and then gulping, consuming all of the vodka in only a few moments. He seemed to like the taste, for he licked his lips before turning his attention to the bottle. The bartender watched, astonished, as Mr. Smith lifted the neck of the bottle to his mouth and began draining the container, chugging down its contents without so much as pausing for breath. If the bartender had learned only one thing about Mr. Smith, it was this: the man could definitely hold his liquor. Mr. Smith set the now empty bottle back down atop the bar and wiped his mouth with the rear of his palm. "Mmm, that was... _refreshing_."

"Would you like anything else, sir?" the bartender asked. "Your regular table is available, and the chef has prepared a fine dinner. Smoked salmon, I believe."

"Not tonight, Al," Mr. Smith replied. "I'm not one to turn down a good meal, but I can't stay long. I have an appointment that simply won't be delayed, despite my wishes to the contrary. Can you tell me when the moon will be out tonight?"

"Of course, sir. Just a moment." A small computer workstation was built into the counter top. The bartender used it primarily to keep track of running tabs and the nightly profits, but the console was intended to be a sort of miniature reference desk; it could call up a variety of information for anyone who wanted to know, such as room rates, check-out times, sports scores, and even the local weather forecast. The bartender's eyes narrowed as his fingers danced across the keyboard. "There we are. Moonrise will be in half an hour, with partly cloudy skies until dawn." He lifted his eyes from the flickering light of the monitor. "Another night of stargazing, sir?"

"Bollocks to the stars, Al," Mr. Smith scoffed. "The moon is the only thing I care about." The bartender saw a smile crack beneath his reflective lenses. "Well, I spoke too soon. I suppose there's one star with whom I'm quite taken. Felicia _will_ be on stage tonight, I hope?"

"You're in luck, sir," the bartender said. "She doesn't begin her Canadian tour until next month. In fact, you're just in time for her last show of the evening."

Even as the bartender spoke, the house lights began to dim. The assembled crowd had been subdued before, save for the occasional laugh or slurred order for more beer, but now a hush fell over it, enveloping the ballroom in an absolute and deathly silence. The bartender had never known any woman--or man--whose impending appearance could command such immediate respect; the U.S. President had visited the hotel once, shortly after its grand opening, and even _he_ had not caused such breathless anticipation. Only Felicia possessed such power; she could transform a pub bustling with rowdy rednecks and loud-mouthed drunkards a into a place as quiet as a tomb.

_Showtime_. All eyes--including those of the bartender--turned to the stage, watched, and waited.

The spotlight came first. The lone beam of light penetrated the darkness like a shining sword and cast its glow upon the violet, velvet curtains of the stage. Somewhere in the surrounding shadow, one overzealous, inebriated patron let out a drunken whoop, only to be quickly hushed by the chiding voices and derisive chuckles of his friends. Next came the saxophone; slow, soft, sultry notes that rippled through the dark, heightening the tension that hung thick in the air.

A single leg peeked through the curtain's folds. It was sleek, slender, and feminine, with healthy, peach-colored skin, and covered from the toes to past the knee in fur as white as snow. A few more isolated catcalls and wolf whistles rang out in the encompassing blackness. The sax grew louder, and faster, and was joined by the melodious tones of a piano.

When Felicia herself at last emerged from behind the curtains, she was truly a sight to behold. She was a woman of lithe, athletic figure, with long, shimmering hair that billowed out behind her and ran down the length of her back like an azure waterfall, all the way to her shapely hips; her hair was a deep, rich blue like the waters of the ocean, and she had eyes of the same hue. She had soft, pouting lips as red as the purest rubies. There was a natural grace in her every movement, despite her exotic, almost campy costume: she wore large, white, fuzzy, cat-like "paws" upon her hands and feet; a matching pair of small triangular ears poked from within her sea of hair. There was even a long "tail" attached to her backside that swished and swayed behind her as she moved.

And move she did; Felicia did not walk so much as strut, the claws on her feet making an audible _click-clack_ upon the stage with each long stride she took. Only now did her admirers show their appreciation in earnest; the ballroom grew loud with the hooting and hollering of her ogling fans, a sound that only grew more intense when she winked and blew a kiss to the audience. She stretched her arms high above her head, closed her eyes, and ran her fingers through the softness of her hair--giving the mass of blue a shake as she did so--trailing them down over her cheeks and neck, and across the curvature of her body. A drum now accompanied the other instruments, turning what had been a lazy tempo into a rhythmic, seductive jungle beat.

The stage itself was a large, raised semicircle that rested against the rear wall of the ballroom. A platform extended from the front of the stage in a runway that the hotel staff had affectionately dubbed "the catwalk". At the far end of the catwalk was a steel pole that ran from the ceiling to the floor. The pole was a collapsible prop that was usually absent when other acts were on stage, lest it block the audience's view of the show, but Felicia always made use of it; even now, she crawled toward it upon her hands and knees, drawing the loudest cheers of the night from her would-be suitors. There was a certain elegance in her motions, almost like that of a ballerina, but she also had a sensual, if not lustful quality to her... a primal, instinctive, _bestial_ temptation. She knelt before the pole, grasped it within her paws, rubbed her warm cheek against its cool metal surface, and slowly began to climb it.

Everyone was watching the spectacle... except for the bartender. He was watching the crowd itself, looking at the pale faces in the front row that caught a sliver of the spotlight, and at the people further back whose presence was betrayed only by the embers of cigarettes that glowed in the dark. It wasn't that the bartender disliked the show; he, like many others, found Felicia to be an attractive young woman. Back when he had started working at Felicia's, her dancing had excited him, as it was surely meant to. Later, as he saw the same show night after night, month after month, the performances first became entertaining, and then common, and then finally routine. The bartender still found Felicia's dances to be diverting--she was easy on the eyes, and he could think of far less pleasant things to look at every night--but he had grown accustomed to them; after so long, they were business as usual to him. He found it more enlightening to keep an eye on her audience... to watch the watchers, as it were, and observe their reactions to the display she put on for them.

As for Felicia herself, he knew surprisingly little about her. The bartender generally gathered information about someone by examining the clothing that he or she wore, but Felicia didn't really wear much of _anything_. Her outfit was skimpy to say the least, a white-furred affair that left very little to the imagination, and that the bartender had once heard described as being "a fuzzy bikini". From this, he could determine only that Felicia was not a modest woman; everything else had to be learned through rumors and hearsay. He'd been working in her employ for over half a year, ever since Felicia's Paradise had opened its doors, and despite that, he had never met Felicia face-to-face. He'd submitted his resume when the hotel sent out a call for applicants, and had been interviewed (and hired) by a waitress. He'd even seen the instructional video that Felicia had prepared on _How To Be A Model Employee, Nya!_, but he hadn't actually spoken to her. The bartender realized that she probably didn't even know his name, but since few people went out of their way to ask him, he took no offense. He was certain that to her, he was just one face among many, one doomed to be lost among the countless people who worked for her, and the people who adored her, and the people who wanted to marry her.

All the bartender knew for certain was that Felicia loved cats, and that was fairly obvious. The hotel's feline-themed decor, the waitresses' cat-girl outfits, the signs that read "Litter Box" as opposed to "Restrooms"--they had all been Felicia's idea. As the bartender understood it, even her own costume, which was scanty enough to make most women blush, was one of her own design, and looked more realistic than those the waitresses wore; the fur was softer, the claws were sharp, and the tail actually moved on its own (probably by means of a small motor) instead of hanging limply behind her.

According to what the bartender had been told, Felicia was a kick boxer by trade, and had gained notoriety for competing in a fighting tournament last year. She later went on to write some sort of horror novel--called _Darkstalkers_, if the bartender remembered correctly--that was allegedly a true story based upon her own experiences with the other fighters in the tournament. The bartender had read the book, as a matter of fact, but he didn't care for it. He was a logical man, and didn't put much stock in stories of ghouls 'n ghosts.

The rest of the United States didn't share his opinion, however; _Darkstalkers_ was an instant hit, shooting to the top of the _New York Times_ bestseller list and staying there--where it still remained--for months. Felicia became a millionaire overnight, and when _Darkstalkers_ swept the nation like wildfire, her career blazed right alongside it. She toured America, appearing on talk shows, attending book signings, recording an album, and even posing in _Playboy_. She also promoted the merchandise: _Darkstalkers_ the t-shirt, _Darkstalkers_ the coloring book, _Darkstalkers_ the breakfast cereal, _Darkstalkers_ the action figures (with kung-fu grip), _Darkstalkers_ the video game. The bartender had heard that _Darkstalkers: The Movie_--with Felicia in the starring role--was due to be released in theaters this Halloween. But even after all of that, her fame and fortune not withstanding, Felicia had stated in an interview that all she really wanted to do was come back to Las Vegas, where she had grown up, and dance.

And that was fine with the bartender. He had learned a long time ago not to question the eccentric nature of celebrities. He was acquainted with a certain rock star (who shall remain nameless) who demanded that he be provided with a bowl full of 69 red Skittles--no more, no less--each night before his concert, or he would not go on stage. This was a free country, it was Felicia's hard-earned money, and she was entitled to spend it however she wished; if she wanted to buy her own casino, turn it into Cat Heaven (as she had done), and continue to dance the night away, then that was her protected right. The bartender didn't mind, nor did he especially care. He had once remarked to Mr. Smith that Felicia could go ahead and remodel the hotel into a giant doghouse; it didn't matter to him, so long as he still received a steady paycheck.

Mr. Smith had laughed so hard, he very nearly fell off his barstool.

Speaking of Mr. Smith, he was watching Feliciajust as intently as everyone else in the room. His eyes had darted to the stage the moment the lights had gone down, and they now followed Felicia's every move. That was something else that the bartender felt he could safely assume about Mr. Smith: he liked Felicia. He might not have been her biggest fan--he didn't leave flowers or gifts for her, as some of the more hopeful men did--but he always watched her dance with the most rapt attention. He visited the hotel far too infrequently to catch all of her nightly performances, but then again, he never came in on the nights when she _wasn't _performing, either.

"She sure does have a thing for cats," the bartender murmured, speaking more to himself than to anyone else.

"What's the matter, Al?" Mr. Smith whispered. His gaze never left Felicia as he spoke. "Don't you like cats?"

"I like them just fine, sir," the bartender replied. "I suppose you'd have to, to work in a place like this. But in all honesty, I'm more of a dog person myself."

If Mr. Smith was smirking in the darkness, then the bartender could not see it, but his voice carried an amused tone. "So am I, Al. But lately..." He licked his lips again, despite the fact that he had not yet had anything else to drink. "... lately, I've grown rather fond of felines."

A collective gasp from the audience drew the bartender's attention. Felicia had been scaling the pole on the catwalk, wrapping her legs around it, suggestively grinding her hips against it, swinging around it... and she had swung right off, landing upon the floor of the stage with a sound _thump_. The steamy music had come to an abrupt halt. Felicia herself appeared stunned, but unhurt; she knelt down where she had fallen, rubbing the back of her head with a paw.

"Blimey, that was a nasty spill," Mr. Smith muttered. "Does she do that often?"

"No sir," the bartender said. He squinted in the direction of the stage, trying to get a better look; people in the crowd were standing up and blocking his view of the recovering Felicia. "I've been working here for six months, and I've never seen her do it once. She must've slipped."

Felicia was now sitting upright on the stage, a smile on her face. She said something that the bartender could not discern, and a ripple of laughter ran through the crowd. He frowned. "What'd she say? I didn't hear."

Mr. Smith chuckled. "She said, 'It looks like cats don't always land on their feet'."

The bartender blinked. "You've got better ears than I do, sir."

He could see Mr. Smith grinning at no one in particular; Felicia had retreated backstage after her tumble, and the house lights had come back up. "I should hope so, Al," Mr. Smith said. With Felicia gone, he returned his attention to the bartender once more. "Well, I'd best be heading out, if I want to get a good look at the moon."

"Would you like me to call a cab for you, sir?" the bartender offered. "You've had quite a bit to drink, and Felicia's Paradise strongly advises against drinking and driving."

"No thank you, Al. Don't worry, I always enjoy a long walk. It's good exercise."

"As you wish, sir. Please feel free to visit us again. I hope the moon is kind to you tonight."

Mr. Smith gave a snort. "Kind, eh?" He shook his head. "I'm afraid that the moon is anything _but_ kind to me, Al. Someone once said... 'The moon is a harsh mistress'."

"Robert Heinlein, sir."

The bartender believed that was the only time he ever managed to impress Mr. Smith; he saw the man's eyebrows rise a fraction of an inch, peeking over the edge of his sunglasses. Then he smiled. "Do you have a dog at home, Al?"

"Yes sir. A dachshund."

"Wiener dog. Good man," Mr. Smith said. He reached into one of his pants pockets and pulled out a wad of green bills. The bartender watched, wide-eyed, as Mr. Smith peeled a single bill away from the stack and set it down upon the counter. "Buy something nice for him and yourself."

The bartender looked down at the verdant slip of paper and saw the face of Benjamin Franklin staring back at him. He picked the bill up and discreetly tucked it into the front pocket of his tuxedo. "Thank you very much, sir," he said. "Will there be anything else?"

"There is one thing," Mr. Smith said. He leaned heavily upon the bar and whispered to the bartender in conspiratorial fashion. "Between you and me, the moon isn't just harsh... she's a real _bitch_."

The bartender idly swabbed out the empty glass of vodka, and watched as Mr. Smith made his way out of the ballroom. He shook his head and sighed. You could learn almost all of a man's secrets if you took a close enough look at him.

And then there were men like Mr. Smith, about whom you could learn very little, simply because they preferred that their secrets remain just that.


End file.
